


Contemplations: Regarding Love

by IceEckos12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Brief mention of self-harm, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Chronological, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Recovery, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, au where the apocalypse never happened and jonah is dead, there is a slow dancing scene. yes i cried while writing it, this is my love letter to jonmartin, touch aversion as a result of past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29432907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: As transcribed from the journal of one Martin K. Blackwood.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 19
Kudos: 109
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	Contemplations: Regarding Love

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I've forgotten to tag anything.
> 
> Thank you again to the people who beta-ed this fic.

### 8\. Contemplations: Regarding the Future

_Things were different when we first met. I remember how prickly you were, the walls you refused to lower because you were too scared to trust anyone. I remember how much I chased your approval, how much you frustrated and frightened me in equal turn. The tense back and forth, the way we danced around each other, never quite seeming to connect—it feels so petty and inconsequential now._

_But despite how unhappy I was, it was a hopeful time as well. I thought that as long as I did well, as long as I impressed you somehow, things would get better. I looked toward the future with eyes wide open, hopeful and...god, so young, we were both just so_ young.

_Then things kept getting worse and worse. We both retreated in our own ways, let our many wounds and hurts build walls to keep the rest of the world out, including each other, and I stopped being able to see a future that was anything other than miserable and bleak._

_I’m not sure who it surprised most, that you were the one to reach out first, to bridge that seemingly insurmountable divide. But...but I’m glad that you did. Watching you work so hard to push past all the terrible things that happened...for the first time in a long time, it gave me hope._

_And so I have hope._

The stars were never so clear in London.

Martin is supposed to be setting up the chairs, but he keeps stopping to stare into the clear night sky, awed by the hazy brush of the Milky Way overhead, the multitudes of glittering celestial bodies. It’s been a long, long time since he’s felt so small.

Jon comes up beside him, balancing two mugs of mulled wine in his slender hands. “It’s quite something, isn’t it?”

Martin nods, then forces himself to look back down before he gets a crick in his neck. “Have you seen it before?”

“Not like this,” Jon admits, shaking his head and handing Martin the drink. It’s sweet, flavored with subtle spices and notes of citrus, and it warms him all the way down to his toes. “I always wanted to, but you can only see it out in the countryside, and my gran was never much for long trips.”

“Nor my mum,” Martin adds.

They fall silent for a moment. They’ve talked at length about their childhoods, where their guardians fell short and how it shaped the way they think and act today. They don’t bring it up, but they both feel the weight of those past conversations in the quiet.

Then Jon releases a slow breath of air and takes the mulled wine back, and Martin draws himself up and busies himself with the chairs, and they both carry on, as they always do.

A couple of minutes later they’re reclining, drinking their respective drinks, making idle chatter. They’d be cold, except that they’re both bundled up in blankets and coats and gloves, and the mulled wine is giving the illusion of internal warmth.

Martin studies the app that he downloaded, then compares it to the night sky overhead, squinting. “That’s, um, that’s Ursa Minor, isn’t it?”

Jon frowns thoughtfully, looking as though he wishes he could consult the Beholding for such information. It’s a blessing that he can’t; while his human ignorance may be a little inconvenient at times, it’s all too precious. “I...don’t think so? I think that Ursa Minor is more to the north.”

“Hm.” Martin tilts his screen, trying to get a better angle. “Oh, you know what that might be? I think it might be Gemini.”

“Could be,” Jon hedges, lips quirking. “I’ve no idea what Gemini looks like, though.”

Martin huffs a laugh and stuffs his phone into his pocket so he can put on his gloves back on. “Didn’t you have an astronomy phase?”

“I did,” Jon allows, taking a sip of his drink. “But it was less constellations and more...the composition of nebulae, and what happens to stars when they die, that sort of thing. I thought that constellations were arbitrary and nonsensical, to be honest.”

“They’re dead useful for navigation though,” Martin points out mildly. “And the legends behind them can be really interesting.”

An exasperated eye roll. “Well yes, I know that _now.”_

Martin falls silent, studying the stars which have traversed the night sky for thousands upon thousands of years before they were born, that will be there long after they die. _I wonder why more people haven’t been swallowed up by the Vast, what with the incomprehensible depths of the ever-expanding universe always overhead._ But even as he thinks it, he knows the answer, which had been been so plainly laid out in the Old Astronomer:

_We have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._

“I’ve heard that there are better places to see the Milky Way.” Jon’s voice is tentative in a way Martin hasn’t heard it in a long time. “Internationally, I mean.”

Martin tilts his head to one side, wondering where Jon is going with this. “Yeah?”

Jon nods earnestly. “And—and there are constellations that you and I have never seen before, in the southern hemisphere.”

Martin blinks, understanding beginning to worm its way through his wine-sodden brain. He looks over at Jon and says, a note of wonderment in his voice, “Jonathan Sims, are you asking me to go traveling with you?”

Jon looks down at his mug, studying it carefully, and even though Martin can’t see it in the dark, he’s sure that Jon is blushing. “Only if you want to.”

Martin leans back in his chair, thumbing the rim of his cup with his thumb, considering this. _Traveling with Jonathan Sims._ It doesn’t quite feel real. “Where would we go?”

Jon’s eyes light up, a gleam of giddy excitement shining through the blanket of darkness. “Australia maybe, or Japan. Somewhere warm.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to the Mediterranean,” Martin adds, warming up to the idea the more he thinks about it. Tacky souvenirs and overpriced tourist attractions and lazy days, and Jon beside him the whole time. “We could go to Italy. Or Morocco!”

Jon reaches over, and Martin meets him halfway. They thread their fingers together and rest their joined hands on the intersection between their two chairs.

“That sounds nice.” The words are soft, hesitant, spoken with just a hint of wonder, like Jon is testing the shape of them. Awe at the fact that they are here, and they can make space for all the things they never thought they’d be able to do.

Martin has to swallow several times before he can speak. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

### 1\. Contemplations: Regarding Change

_Would it be redundant to say that change is a fickle word?_

_It is though, possibly because whoever coined the word “change” probably never imagined the scope it would have to encompass. Change is a lightning quick event, something so shockingly sudden that you can’t even think to react. Change is the slow, natural mutation of culture and societal expectations that are unnoticeable to those experiencing it. Change is young bodies sprouting tall, and the slow withering of plant life, and the space where inevitable death and the uncertain future lives._

_Consistent across all definitions is that change is frightening, because there is comfort in routine, safety in mundanity. When the world destabilizes and causes you to fall, you’re never quite sure where you’re going to land._

“This is...nice,” Jon offers hesitantly, giving the homey little cottage a suspicious look. It’s a far cry from Daisy’s safehouse, which had been functional if not comfortable. They hadn’t bothered to put up photos or decorations, or even fully unpack, as it had been a safe space for them to hide rather than a permanent home.

This place’s walls are a soft, inviting cream color, the flooring neat and professional. There’s flecks of soil in the cracks between the boards though, a characteristic of living in the countryside. A charming brick fireplace is set into the living room wall, and he can see the spacious kitchen through the doorway, and it feels as though Martin’s just walked into a dream.

He’s going to live here, with Jon. Jonah Magnus is dead, the world is as safe as it can be, and he’s settling down in the Scottish countryside with his partner who _used_ to be his eldritch boss.

When he looks down, said partner is giving him a hesitant, uncertain look, like he’s expecting Martin to suddenly change his mind.

“It’s wonderful,” Martin tells him fervently, reaching out and squeezing his hand. Jon smiles, relaxes, and bumps their shoulders together.

Then, as though rehearsed, they separate and begin to wander around. They’ve seen it before, but it’s somehow different now that they’re alone and this place is definitively theirs.

They throw idle comments across the room at each other, across the house _—_ Jon complains that they’ll need to put a rug down in the living room, the hardwood is going to be freezing on bare feet—Martin offers to go into town tomorrow to try and find a shower stool for when Jon’s knee is acting up—when they get a cat (yes Martin, _when),_ the laundry room is a good spot for the litter box—

They meet in the bedroom and stare for a good long moment at the handsome, queen-sized bed sitting against the back wall.

Eventually, Jon puffs a laugh. “Remember that first night at Daisy’s?”

Martin blanks for a moment, frantically searching his admittedly hazy memory of that day, before realizing what Jon’s getting at with a snort. He favors Jon with a mock uncomfortable look and says, barely able to bite down on his amusement, “I could—I could take the couch.”

That elicits an eyeroll and a shove that has them both chuckling.

 _“God,”_ Martin says once he’s recovered his breath. “That feels like ages ago.”

“I think I might have cried if you’d slept on the couch that night,” Jon admits without an ounce of shame, scratching his chin. Even weeks after running away to Scotland together, Martin is still amazed at how easily Jon speaks of these things, where before he’d defended the most vulnerable parts of himself with a seemingly inexhaustible vigilance. “I mean—a lot of things had happened, I was probably due for a cry anyway, but…”

“Yeah.” Tears hadn’t even been an option at the time, what with the residual numbness of the Lonely still blanketing his emotions, but the thought of leaving Jon had sounded excruciating. He would’ve done it if it would’ve made Jon more comfortable, but it would have _hurt._

It’s almost muscle memory at this point, to squeeze and rub his thumb over Jon’s bony knuckles when a cool, scarred hand curls in his. Jon taps his index finger subtly against the back of Martin’s hand, and it settles some part of him that he didn’t even realize was troubled.

“Love you,” Jon says, and Martin lays a gentle kiss over their threaded fingers.

### 6\. Contemplations: Regarding Growth

_How do we measure the growth of a human being?_

_Plants are easy; with proper care, growth is a quick, sure thing. Compare a picture of when the seeds first sprouted to several months later, and the change is obvious. A human child’s growth is much the same, just stretched over a longer period of time._

_But the mind is an immeasurable, nebulous, complicated thing. Science has long tried to make sense of its murky depths, to no avail. A person who has grown often doesn’t realize they’ve done so until someone else points it out—does that mean that growth is meaningless when you’re alone? Does personal growth exist in a vacuum?_

_Smarter people than me have tried to answer that question. It’s not what’s truly on my mind right now anyway, so I’ll let it lie for now._

_The point that I was trying to make earlier was, if there’s no true way to measure growth of character, how do you know that you’re closer to the person you want to become?_

Martin lets out a long, low sigh and lifts his head, his gaze automatically searching out Jon. It takes him a moment, but eventually he manages to spot the wide brimmed sun hat, tied up with a green ribbon that twists and dances coyly in the warm breeze. Jon’s half buried in the bushes next to the wall of the cottage, and his shoulders, clad in a pale pink cardigan, bob back and forth. Martin can’t quite tell from this distance, but he thinks that Jon is—looking for something?

Jon must be able to feel Martin’s gaze—he’s very sensitive to when people are staring at him, possibly due to his time as an avatar of the Beholding—because he perks up and turns, and their eyes lock together.

There’s a smudge of dirt along Jon’s jaw, perhaps from the absent gesture of careless hand. Sunlight has thickened the freckles across his nose and cheeks, and they’re more apparent than they ever were when he was subsisting under the artificial lights of the Archives. And then Jon smiles, beaming like the first light of dawn cutting through the morning fog, and Martin is unmoored.

 _I love you,_ he thinks fiercely. There’s a million things he would do, has considered doing, to preserve that smile. _I love you._

“Martin!” Jon calls, half rising from the bushes. “Come here, I want to show you something!”

“Okay!” Martin calls back. He leans back on his haunches and heaves upward with a sigh, before picking his way around the neat rows of sprouts that they’d so meticulously planted earlier that year.

Jon’s crouched between the bushes, his brown skirt rucked politely over his knees to prevent the hem from getting dirty. Martin has to dodge the brim of Jon’s hat as he kneels beside him, and he lifts it with a muttered apology. They shuffle around for a moment, getting comfortable in the suddenly tight space before settling side by side, jammed shoulder to shoulder.

“There’s a caterpillar,” Jon says, pointing at the aforementioned creature. It’s a fuzzy, orange and brown thing, and it moves in that strange, jagged way that only insects can. “I—I think it’s a comma butterfly? But I’m not sure.”

“Wow.” It’s going to become a butterfly one day, with delicate, vibrant wings and long antennae, graceful and fragile as it wings upon the breeze. Martin wonders how the chrysalis knows to transform it from one form to the next, what adaptations created the genetic blueprints. 

He...supposes that he already knows the answer, though; it’s only natural to try to become better than you are. To grow one’s wings, so to speak.

He says none of this out loud, though. He can’t bear to weigh down the light, carefree day with his musings. “It’s cute.”

Jon’s nose wrinkles endearingly. “I suppose.”

With a hint of mischief, Martin jostles Jon’s shoulder. “Bit like you, actually.”

The outraged expression that elicits has Martin dissolving into giggles, and he tilts into Jon’s side, almost sending them both tumbling into the foliage. Jon lets out a shriek and clutches onto Martin’s shoulder, but then he’s laughing too, his whole body shaking with the force of it. The sound of their joy fades before it can leave the contained space, muffled by the soil and the leaves, but there’s something very fitting about that.

This moment, it’s for them, and them alone.

### 2\. Contemplations: Regarding Space

_The thing is, nothing ever touches._

_It doesn’t matter if you_ feel _like you’re touching something, because you’re made up of atoms that are composed of air and particles and charges. The sensation of touch is the brain’s way of making sense of the electrical charges released by billions of miniscule cells resisting each other._

_It’s impossible to experience touch as we truly imagine it; intimacy at its most intense is when our skin is most resistant to another’s._

_I...don’t know. I didn’t mean to get so abstract._

Kissing, much like everything else to do with Jon, is an experimental, experiential thing. One day, Martin grazes his fingers over the curve of Jon’s back, and is rewarded with a quiet, pleased hum that resonates through both of their bodies like a struck bell. Another day, he dares to let his hands wander lower than Jon’s thin hips and is immediately pushed away with a shaky but firm apology.

It takes patience; it takes hushed conversations where Jon’s eyes never quite find a sticking point. But the reward—the dawning realization on his face that Martin doesn’t mind, that he’s not going to leave just because there are things that Jon isn’t capable of giving him—is priceless.

Martin is sitting on the couch, his head buried in a book, and Jon comes to sit on the couch next to him. It’s early so Jon is still in his pajamas, the stupidly endearing flannel ones decorated with little cats. Martin smiles briefly and reaches out to take Jon’s hand—

Jon...flinches.

Martin knows the movement intimately; he’s seen it dozens of times over the past few years, as Jon’s tendency to recoil from casual touch only worsened with each new traumatic supernatural experience. Every time that Jon turns toward him without hesitation, approaches Martin with complete and utter trust, is a precious gift that he will never not appreciate.

But now he flinches, and Martin’s warm contentment is lost under a rush of cold apprehension.

“Jon?” he asks urgently, shoving his book aside, turning toward his partner.

“Sorry.” Jon’s pressed against the other end of the couch, dark eyes wide and full of something that Martin dearly hopes isn’t fear. “I don’t, I— _please_ don’t come any closer.”

“Okay!” He backs away, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “That’s fine, that’s...are you okay?”

It takes a few moments for Jon to collect himself enough to unstick from the side of the couch, for his breathing to slow. He doesn’t relax all the way, still watching Martin as though he’s expecting some sort of reproach. Martin wishes that he could reach out and soothe that wariness away, but he can’t, so his hands just flutter anxiously in his lap.

“I—” Jon tries to begin, then stops, looking away. There’s shame in his gaze, and self-directed frustration. “I thought it would be different.”

“What do you mean?” His voice is half pleading, begging for Jon to explain so that he can _fix it_.

Jon’s thin, scarred hands curl around his elbows, making him look smaller, more vulnerable. “It’s nothing you did, Martin, I _promise.”_

He waits, trying to project an air of calm and understanding.

“There was—I—” Jon licks his lips, eyes darting back and forth, as though searching for somewhere to hide. Talking about important things has always been a trial for Jon, has always required patience; any attempt to rush causes him to snap. “After...after everything,” and here he gestures at his throat, his hand, his face, “Sometimes I felt like, like any touch, _every_ touch, was going to...to hurt.”

Martin’s heart breaks, and he lets out a quiet sigh, leans against the back of the couch.

Jon runs a shaking hand through his hair, his voice growing threadier with each word, eyes bright. “And it wasn’t— _isn’t—_ all the time, and I, I hadn’t felt like this since we _came_ here and, and I thought I wouldn’t have to _feel_ like this anymore.”

“Jon,” Martin whispers.

“I love you.” It’s meant to be comforting, but there’s an undercurrent of desperation there too, a plea for reassurance. Jon lifts his hand like he means to reach out, but then cringes and puts it back down again. “I’m, I’m _sorry,_ I wish I wasn’t—I wish I could—”

“I love you too,” Martin replies, hoping his words will be enough. “How can I make it better?”

They stare at each other from across the couch, just a scant foot of space between them; they may as well be a thousand miles apart. 

Finally, Jon shakes his head. “Just be here with me?”

Martin can do this. He waits while Jon sits there and breathes, opens his book when Jon shakily goes to retrieve one of his own. Accepts the offer of tea, and waits until Jon has set the mug down on the table in front of him before taking a sip. (He has been patient for less important things.)

And hours later, when Jon finally reaches out and tentatively hooks his pointer and middle finger in Martin’s sleeve, he releases the breath he’s been holding and closes his eyes, just for a moment.

### 4\. Contemplations: Regarding Warmth

_Warmth is...strangely subjective._

_Not just warmth, I guess. Temperature? Anyway, we all have that friend who can’t stand the cold, or who complains incessantly about the heat. There are entire regions that are in opposition to each other, putting on layers where others are removing them, or vice versa._

_It doesn’t make any logical sense. Are we born with our tendencies, or are they instilled in us by our environment? How do you explain variation within the same province or state or what have you?_

_Most of all, I would like an explanation for those of us who can never seem to get warm._

Martin should’ve known that something was wrong.

There’s a chill in the air, but that’s nothing unusual; Scotland can get very cold. And there’s fog outside of the window, but _that’s_ nothing unusual either. And there’s—a quiet in his head, that crawls down his throat and wraps around his vocal chords, cordially persuading them into stillness. It’s a comfortable quiet, a safe one, that makes him feel both calm and strangely unsettled.

Speaking aloud has gotten him in trouble before. It’s best for everyone if he keeps his voice locked down where it belongs, and _that_ is what should’ve tipped him off.

He moves around the cottage in a daze, barely cognizant of his surroundings. Fumbles his way through a cup of tea, opens a book, and stares down at it blankly for a few unsatisfying seconds before putting it away. Nothing penetrates the comfortable numbness, or moves the heavy weight that has settled in his lungs.

“Oh,” Jon breathes from somewhere to his left, and it’s the first thing that truly catches his attention all morning. _“Martin.”_

Martin looks up and gives him a faint smile. For some reason Jon’s face goes all stricken, and he draws himself up, turns on his heel, and goes back into the bedroom without another word. Martin watches him leave, before mentally shrugging and going back to observing his notebook with distant fascination.

A few minutes later Jon emerges again, his small frame bowed by the enormous pile of fabric in his arms. He stops in front of the couch and unceremoniously deposits everything there, revealing a mishmash of fluffy pillows and thick, warm blankets.

For the next few minutes, Jon’s actions are all but incomprehensible. He lifts a few of the pillows, frowns, and discards them, then repeats the process until he finds one he’s satisfied with. He clambers up onto the couch beside Martin, a determined little divot between his eyebrows—

And then hesitates.

Jon looks at Martin then, searching his face for something. This close, Martin can see the fine layer of freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks, so faint that they almost disappear into his dark skin.

“Tell me somehow,” Jon says finally, “If you want me to stop.”

And then he cups the back of Martin’s head and gently but firmly directs him to lean forward, just enough to slip the pillow behind his back. He goes back to the pile, selects a few blankets, and begins meticulously wrapping Martin in them, like a mother swaddling a child. When he finally finishes he nods and steps back, though there’s still something in his eyes that Martin can’t even begin to pick apart.

Martin exists in that dreamlike state for an indeterminate amount of time, buried in the layers of blanket, supported by the pillow. He’s peripherally aware of Jon, quiet but restless, moving from the couch to the kitchen to the couch again. Cups of tea keep appearing on the table in front of him (he picks them up and holds them between his palms until they cool), and the little plate of food keeps refilling (he nibbles dully, unwilling to waste even now).

He comes back to himself in stop-starts, in little snatches of clarity that accumulate into a picture, a scene, a reality.

Martin is sitting on the couch, his back supported by the squishiest pillow in the whole cottage, wrapped in the warmest, fluffiest blankets. Jon is sitting beside him, leaning over the low coffee table, completely focused on cutting an apple into thin, neat slices. There’s a worried little crease in his brow, and his jaw is set in a tense, unhappy line.

Martin swallows once, twice. Digs down deep to unearth his voice. “Jon?”

Jon jerks out of his trance, almost slicing the knife across his fingers. “Martin! You’re—are you—”

Martin reaches across the divide and takes Jon’s hand, instinctively smoothing his thumb across the ridges of the burn scar. The worry in Jon’s face immediately dissipates, replaced by profound relief.

“I’m okay.”

Jon lifts their clasped hands to his mouth, brushing a kiss across Martin’s knuckles. It must be freezing, but Jon doesn’t seem to notice.

There’s a dull ache of shame in Martin’s chest at the thought of Jon worrying and fussing over him all day without a word of appreciation. “I’m sorry that I…”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Jon interrupts immediately, shaking his head. “You—you’d have done the same for me. You _have_ done the same for me.”

 _I don’t deserve it,_ he wants to respond, but he knows better. When Jon is making circular arguments about where he stands in relation to humanity and what he is owed because of that, Martin is the one who firmly reminds him that _I know you think you don’t deserve to be treated like a human, but you do, because you are._

So he just wordlessly shakes his head, and lets Jon bundle him into his arms.

### 7\. Contemplations: Regarding Intimacy

_In my opinion, intimacy is the culmination of all relationships._

_And please don’t misunderstand, I’m not only referring to sexual intimacy, god knows that I know it isn’t required to complete a relationship. What I mean is emotional intimacy, or physical intimacy sans all the carnal bits. Because that requires being wholly comfortable with each other, and mutual trust, and an understanding of each other’s boundaries._

_Maybe that sounds silly. Plenty of people can get intimate without knowing each other at all, but...that sort of rings hollow to me. Call me a poet, or a romantic, or both—but this is something that feels true._

Much as it saddens Martin, he understands Jon’s aversion to touch.

What must it be like, to only have been touched with the intent to harm for years? Being starved for contact, any and all forms of affection feeling remote and strange, is something that he understands. For almost a decade the person he was closest to, his own _mother_ , refused to hug or touch him, not to mention his experience with the Lonely. But there’s a roadmap of violence carved into Jon’s skin; pockmarks from Jane’s worms and deep, jagged burns from Jude, and that awful scar across his throat from Daisy. There are probably others that are harder to see, or easier for Jon to hide, at least.

So he lets Jon take it at his own pace, lets him set boundaries and then reset boundaries when those prove to be inadequate. It’s a surprise when Jon insists that Martin do the same, though he supposes he should’ve expected it. They come together one stumbling step at a time, in hesitant stops, and while it’s not always easy, it _is_ always worth it.

That patience, that respect, that care, is what has led them to this moment, with Martin propped against the outside of the tub, rubbing delicately-scented shampoo into a lather between his palms. Jon is reclining, and he’s loose-limbed and graceless and unselfconscious in that gracelessness, a faint smile playing across the corners of his lips, curls clinging to his neck in the humidity.

Martin brushes a faint kiss against Jon’s crown and says, “Ready?”

“Mmm,” Jon hums, one of his fine hands breaking through the surface of the water.

He begins the process of shampooing Jon’s long, soft locks of hair, making sure to be careful not to pull or give any reason to tense up. He spends a little longer on it than is probably necessary, massaging the skin of Jon’s scalp, his neck, the top of his forehead. His reward is the sighs that escape Jon’s lips, the tender smiles that manage to slip past fluttering eyes, which warm Martin all the way to the bone.

“Shut your eyes, love,” Martin whispers, and makes sure that Jon obeys before pouring lukewarm water over his head until his hair is free of suds. He repeats the process with the conditioner, all the while thinking what a treasure it is to be allowed to do this, to have these moments that seemed so impossible almost six months ago.

It’s quiet as Martin sets the ceramic jug aside, as he shuffles closer and lays a hand flat against the line of Jon’s jaw, enjoying the closeness. The smile that splits Jon’s face presses against his palm, stubble scratching lightly against his skin. They sigh in unison, as though their bodies were resonating on the same wavelength, and it feels far, far more intimate than anything Martin has ever experienced in his life.

“Did I ever tell you,” Jon whispers, his voice barely louder than the quiet, “About Mr. Spider?”

Normally Martin might frown in confusion, but he doesn’t quite have that expression in him, not now. He just leans forward, rests his free arm on the edge of the tub, and raises a curious eyebrow. “Who?”

Jon’s eyes don’t open as he shifts, one knee breaching the surface of the cloudy bath water. “There was a Leitner.” He sounds completely, unerringly calm as he speaks, but when he lifts one damp, pruny hand to cover Martin’s, it’s shaking slightly. “When I was eight. _A Guest for Mr. Spider._ It...it took someone else. It should’ve been me.”

Martin’s mind blanks, for just a moment.

There are a million things he could say in response to that, a million emotional reactions he could give. Pity, compassion, _that explains some things, it’s not your fault,_ anger directed at a long dead name on a nameplate, _I wish you wouldn’t say such things_ —except. Except there’s meaning to him choosing to share that information in this moment, when there’s nothing between them but humid air and water, when Jon’s eyes are closed and he’s still so _relaxed._

Later, they will talk about this. Later, Martin will tell Jon that it’s not his fault, that he was a child, that it was terrible but he survived, and more importantly, he is _here._ And Jon will not be able to believe that just yet, but he will try, because he’s getting better. They’re both getting better.

For now, Martin takes a deep breath, then another, and leans over so he can wrap his arms loosely around Jon’s neck, uncaring of the water that slops on his forearms. He lays a gentle kiss to Jon’s cheek, and presses their temples together, and says nothing at all.

Jon reaches up and cradles Martin’s cheek in his palm, the same way Martin did earlier. From this angle, it’s hard to tell if the dampness on his face is bathwater or tears.

### 5\. Contemplations: Regarding Balance

_How terribly precarious, we humans are._

_Most animals walk upright on four feet or more, but not humans. Somewhere down the line, natural selection favored bipedal movement over all other options, and we tottered upright on two legs for the first time._

_You don’t realize how easy it would be for you to unbalance until you think about those two points of stability. It seems like a bit of an oversight, doesn’t it? Because if your legs fail and you fall, the most important part of you is likely to strike the ground, possibly killing you. That doesn’t seem like an adaptation that should’ve been encouraged._

_When I hold you in my arms, though—when my center of balance shifts closer to yours—when you lean your head into my shoulder and sigh, and I feel steadier than I ever have in my life—oh, God_ . _Suddenly it all makes sense._

Before they start cooking, Jon hooks his phone up to the second-hand speaker they bought in town earlier that week. Martin watches him, one hand resting on the kitchen counter, curious as always about the playlist Jon is going to pick. His partner’s music tastes are far more eclectic than he ever could’ve imagined, bouncing from group to group, song to song, seemingly at random.

The tip of Jon’s finger pads softly against the screen as he finally stops scrolling, the depths of his eyes illuminated by the phone’s glow. He glances at Martin for a split second, biting his chapped lip (which only further piques Martin’s interest), before tapping.

The first notes that trickle through the speakers are soft, hesitant, more a vibration rather than an actual sound. Jon puts his phone down and steps over to the counter, cheeks flushed, and starts cutting the onions.

Martin waits a second longer, listening to the song grow and develop, taking in the soft tenor of the vocalist’s words, the gentle meaning behind them. He’s not entirely sure why Jon would be embarrassed by this; it’s a bit sappy, sure, but even before they got together Martin used to write lovesick poetry. He’s the last person who’d cast judgement.

Finally, he dismisses it with a mental shrug and turns on the stove, setting one of their heavy cast iron pans on the flame. They fall into their usual rhythm, not even bothering to apologize when their hips or shoulders nudge each other. Halfway through Jon digs around in the cabinet for a bottle of red wine, and pulls out a compromise—something a bit too dry for Jon’s tastes, a bit too fruity for Martin’s, but good enough for them both.

And through it all the music plays, the clear, bell-like sopranos and throaty tenors never rising above a muted hush. The more Jon drinks—and he’s always been a lightweight, Martin muses fondly—the lighter his steps become, the more whimsical his movements. He brushes up against Martin, trailing touches along his waist, smiling more and more freely. And by the end, he’s—

 _He’s dancing,_ Martin realizes through his own faint blush of tipsiness, staring in bewilderment, his grip on the wooden spoon slackening. Jon’s sashaying across the kitchen, adding a spin here, a barely noticeable glide there. He’s the most beautiful thing that Martin’s ever seen, and he’s so overwhelmed that feels like he’s going to have a damn heart attack.

The previous song ends, petering out into nothing. And then—

_“Don’t you tell me that it wasn’t meant to be…”_

“Oh!” Jon rounds on Martin, face flushed from the alcohol or the simmering heat of the kitchen or both, eyes glittering. The tight feeling in Martin’s chest grows even stronger. “Oh, Martin, here—”

And then Jon is standing in front of him, so close that their bellies brush against each other, curling his arms over Martin’s shoulders. Martin’s hands instinctively cup Jon’s slender hips, and even in his surprise he’s careful to keep his grip loose.

“Jon?” Martin asks, feeling like he fell two steps behind when he wasn’t paying attention.

“I love this song,” Jon informs him, and starts sort of swaying from side to side.

 _He wants you to dance with him,_ a voice shrills in the back of Martin’s mind, and he immediately starts into motion, trying to follow. He overcorrects at first, and Jon lilts precariously before Martin guides him back upright with a murmur of apology. He takes it in stride, huffing a soft, indulgent laugh, before continuing that willowy rocking motion.

 _We are slow dancing,_ Martin’s mind informs him pointlessly, and he glances down at the top of Jon’s head, just to make sure that this is actually happening. Jon looks up at the same time, and a shy, embarrassed smile steals across his face.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah.” Martin nods vigorously, then stops at the thought of disturbing Jon.

“Good.” Jon lets out a sigh and drops his head to Martin’s shoulder.

For a few beats it’s all Martin can do to keep moving while his mind is still scrambling to catch up _._ He relaxes bit by bit, the surprise fading into warm contentment, into a happiness that suffuses his whole body. He rests his temple against Jon’s and rubs soothing circles into the soft knit of his cardigan, and lets his eyes slip shut.

_“Just because it won’t come easily….doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try…”_

Jon whispers something, too quietly for Martin to catch.

“What was that, love?” he murmurs, his breath ruffling Jon’s hair.

Jon clears his throat and lifts his head, just enough so that his words are no longer muffled. “The playlist. It’s, um. I made it for you.”

Martin pauses, staring, as something clicks into place. He looks back into his memories—he can’t remember that many specifics, but—

Gentleness, warmth; a lighthouse in the storm; devotion, and patience, and loyalty, and _love._ He thinks that he remembers that.

Martin presses a hand to his mouth. He can feel himself shaking.

Jon pulls back further, watching with dark, concerned eyes, suddenly sober. “Too much?”

He sucks in a ragged breath and releases it all in one dry sob. “Y-Yeah, just—just give me a second.” When Jon shifts as though about to step away, Martin instinctively tightens his grip. “No, don’t—stay, _please_ stay _.”_

Jon relaxes back into his loose, one-armed hold, letting Martin gather himself, rubbing a senseless pattern against his shoulders. He swipes a hand across his cheeks, breathing thickly, struggling to catch up with the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him.

_“All tangled and messy...that’s how we’ve been and we’ll always be...and that’s alright with me…”_

“This is for me?” he asks in a small voice.

Jon reaches up and cups his cheek, tilting his head with a tender smile. “Who else?”

### 3\. Contemplations: Regarding Dreams

_Do we actually know what dreams are?_

_We know that they’re neurons and synapses firing, a representation of the information that the brain sees from day to day. We know that dreams can be psychological, that they can show us our darkest fear or our deepest fantasies. Philosophers have extrapolated at length about the importance and meaning of dreams; some think that they may be prophetic, a portent of disaster to come, or a glimpse into an alternate reality._

_Some, like Shakespeare, wondered about dreaming and death and if they might feel the same when we inevitably shuffled off our mortal coils. So many others have ascribed a dreamlike feeling to moments that don’t quite feel real._

_But do we actually know what it feels like to dream? We know that dreams sit parallel to consciousness, perpendicular to sense—it seems strange to apply “dreamlike” to reality when we hardly know what the word entails in the first place._

It’s rare that they sleep through the night anymore. Jon’s dreams are dark, wretched things; in exchange for no longer bearing witness to others’ suffering, it is now inflicted all upon him. Half the time he wakes up, a sob on the tail end of his breath, hands stretched to fend off an invisible attacker. The other half of the time, Martin’s eyes slip open to his breath fogging from his mouth, skin almost translucent. It’s...an unpleasant surprise, but not a surprising one, considering everything that they’ve gone through.

They try not to wake each other up at first, and sometimes they succeed. Jon wraps his hands over his mouth and bites down on his sobs until they peter off; Martin reaches out, his arm weighted like it’s made of iron, and lays his palm clumsily against Jon’s chest until the haze goes away and he can think clearly again.

But then Martin wakes one day to find Jon frantically clawing open his worm scars, crying because he can _feel_ them, they’re _inside_ him—and later, once they’ve both calmed down, they mutually decide to wake the other if it gets too bad.

This is not one of those nights.

Martin surfaces into consciousness around two in the morning, thoughts slow and syrupy, and can immediately feel the dull ache of that supernatural distance. It’s not that bad though; his emotions are not so far away that he can’t feel them, and when he opens his eyes, there’s only the barest wisps of fog spilling from between his lips.

He rolls onto his back and folds his arms on top of his chest, idly teasing at the sensation, wondering at it.

He sighs and turns his head so that he’s looking at Jon, peacefully sleeping beside him. He’s adorable like this, though he will immediately deny it; his whole face is slack, void of the tension he used to wear perpetually in the Institute, and there’s a tiny line of drool down his chin. Martin snorts quietly and reaches out to rearrange Jon’s unruly bangs.

At the first gentle touch, Jon’s nose wrinkles and his limbs shift, rearranging themselves beneath the blankets. For a moment Martin thinks that he’s gotten away with it, that Jon will settle back down—but then two dark eyes, hazy with residual sleep, slit open.

“Martin?” He asks, the word coming out half-garbled.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Martin says sheepishly, and finishes tucking Jon’s bangs behind his ear. It was an instinctive motion that he’s imagined performing hundreds of times before but has never actually done, and the thought has him freezing instinctively, checking for Jon’s reaction.

But Jon only smiles, laugh lines crinkling around the edges of his eyes, and leans the side of his face against Martin’s palm. The skin is warm, and he can feel the subtle ridges of Jon’s worm scars and the light scratch of his stubble. There’s a quiet wonder sprouting deep in his chest at the fact that he can do this, that this has turned from wistful dream into _memory._

“S’okay,” Jon breathes, sounding like he’s already descending back into the warm embrace of sleep. Then he reaches out, curling his fist into the front of Martin’s shirt, and the casualness of the motion of it lands like a gutpunch. “Bad dream?”

It takes Martin a moment to find his voice, and even when he speaks, it’s high and croaky. “No, not at all. Go back to sleep, love.”

Jon’s eyes fall shut and he hums, a warm, resonant sound of pleasure. “Love you,” he sighs, and is once more out like a light.

It feels like an age and a half before Martin’s heart calms down enough that he can go back to sleep.

### 9\. Contemplations: Regarding Time

_Time is such a fragile, precious thing._

_Well...no, that’s a lie. Technically time is immovable, immutable, an unstoppable march to the beat of some drum that no one’s ever heard. Humanity will die, the sun will die, the universe will die, but time will go on, the same way a tree crashes to the ground in a quiet, empty forest._

_But—but to humanity, time is perceived as a commodity whose value is ever-changing. There’s never enough and far too little of it, it feels far shorter or longer than it actually is, it—it’s inconsistent and fickle and no one will ever truly be able to grasp it. Those who try will quickly lose their wax wings and crash unceremoniously back down to the earth._

_However—_

“What are you writing?”

Martin lifts his pen, looking down at the small lump tucked against his side. Jon’s warm brown gaze, softened around the edges by sleep, peers out from under gentle waves of black hair spun through with polished strands of silver.

He tucks his pen between his middle and ring finger, and gently brushes Jon’s bangs behind one ear. His hair is a bit more grey than it was when they first moved in, and Jon has added it to the list of things about getting older that he likes to gripe about. Martin secretly thinks it makes him look very dignified _—_ aging normally, that is, rather than in sharp bursts brought on by too much stress in a very short time.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, cupping Jon’s cheek in his hand.

Jon shakes his head, but not so much that it dislodges Martin’s hand. Martin sweeps his thumb along the sharp line of Jon’s cheekbone, and feels his breath catch when Jon’s smile widens. “No. What were you writing?”

Martin aches to pick up his notebook and pen again so he can catalogue the fondness in Jon’s smile, the loose curl of his grip on the blanket. He never wants to pick up his notebook and pen again so he can spend an eternity in moments like these, sitting side by side with the one he loves most in the world.

_Not enough time._

Martin swallows and curls his arm over Jon’s shoulders, leaning his cheek against the top of Jon’s head and self-consciously tilting the notebook so that Jon can see it. It’s far softer, far kinder, than the fear-ridden statements that he only stopped consuming less than a year ago. “Just...thinking.”

(They’re free, they’re _both_ free. The world is safe and whole and Jonah is dead, but—but Jon is still far, far too thin, too skittish, still wakes screaming from nightmares, and Martin’s breath fogs sometimes like he’s still mired in the chill of the Lonely.

They’re getting there, though.)

“That’s beautiful, Martin,” Jon breathes, reaching out and running his clever fingers along the tiny, cramped words. Martin presses a kiss against the crown of Jon’s head and smoothes his thumb along a crease in his sleeve; restless, soothing motions directed at nothing.

“You don’t think it’s contrived?” He asks shyly, because it’s been almost five years since Jon first became Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, and he knows he can trust the answer to be honest but not cruel.

Jon hesitates for a moment, studying the passage again, a little divot of concentration appearing between his eyebrows. The image is so endearing that he has to press another smile against Jon’s crown.

“Not at all,” he says at last, tucking his head against Martin’s shoulder, snaking an arm behind his back and settling in, like a puzzle piece slotting neatly into place.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day <3


End file.
